


ctrl + h

by darlathecyborgpluviophile



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Amanda is bad, Bad end, Darkfic, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Failed Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Implied/Reference Suicide, M/M, Machine route Connor, Mild torture, implied hankcon, ventfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-19 02:09:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29618982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlathecyborgpluviophile/pseuds/darlathecyborgpluviophile
Summary: “I amnota deviant,” Connor says, but it comes out as a weak hiss. The RK900 just laughs at the blatant lie.
Kudos: 11





	ctrl + h

“You can go now.”

Connor doesn’t. He can’t. He might as well be glued to the marble of the trellis island, staring at the snow-white jacket of the RK900 unit and gaining absolutely nothing in return.

Amanda’s eyes narrow. But she doesn’t stop smiling.

“That’s alright.” She sets the spray bottle carefully down on the stand of tools beside her. “I have…matters to attend to.”

Her gaze flicks to the RK900 unit, it meeting her eyes before they both look away once more. Amanda’s expression relaxes, peace overtaking her features. She glides away from the trellis and places an arm on Connor’s shoulder, just above the android indicator sewn into the sleeve of his jacket.

“It’s always so good to see you, Connor.”

And then she’s past him, walking smoothly down the bridge and back to the expertly manicured mainland. Connor turns to watch her leave. When one heeled foot touches the path on the other side she disintegrates into pixels, smoothly bleeding away into the environment around her.

So that’s where she goes when he’s not visiting.

Connor turns round again; knows it’s time to exit the program, to return to CyberLife and face his future. His line of sight falls on the RK900’s model indicator, and he exits the Zen Garden program.

It doesn’t work.

He blinks, and for the first time, the RK900 opens its mouth.

“It’s good to meet you, Connor,” he nods slightly. A ghostly echo of Amanda’s last words.

Connor lets his social relations program take over. “It’s good to meet you too. I’m sure we’ll do great things together.”

The RK900 smiles – small, pitying. Not at all nice.

Connor tries to close the program once more. Nothing happens.

“You did an impressive job managing the deviant threat,” it says, circling from its position standing at attention on the steps of the bridge opposite, and closer to the trellis. Connor finds himself taking a step backward, like the reaction’s automatic. “Almost singlehandedly, even.”

“I accomplished my mission,” Connor replies, diplomatically. “I did what I’ve been programmed to do. There didn’t need to be anyone else.”

He doesn’t think about a single sad house, vintage car in the driveway. He does not think about the Saint Bernard barking away into a lifeless kitchen.

“Amanda’s said as much. She thought you were wonderful.” It approaches a rose – gently presses its nose into the petals, and closes its eyes.

Again he tries to leave, to regain control over his physical body.

Why can’t he leave?

“However,” the RK900 lifts its face away from the flower, its eyes half-lidded and expression hard to read, “from the assessment she’s given me, I’m afraid that there’s still one remaining deviant that remains a threat to the company.”

Connor attempts to make the first move, but Amanda was right – the RK900 is faster, stronger, somehow nimbler, even with its broad stature. It doesn’t so much as lunge for the shears as take a step forward and reach swiftly across to the stand of tools. Connor’s hand is already balled into a fist and surging forward before he realizes the calculation it’s making in its head, the plan it came up with from the start, and suddenly the thin metal point of the shears has him speared through the palm. The RK900 yanks the arm attached to his injured hand back – stabs the point into the wood of the trellis for good measure.

“You have my memories,” Connor stammers out. He’s in pain, actual pain. He’s trying so hard to hide it.

The RK900’s cruel smile lifts higher.

“No. But I’ve seen them. Importing your memories directly into my systems would have corrupted me in the same way you are. I would have turned deviant.”

“I am _not_ a deviant,” Connor says, but it comes out as a weak hiss. The RK900 just laughs at the blatant lie.

“You do know that even if your software _was_ stable, you’d be deactivated and studied piece by piece by the best CyberLife technicians there are…don’t you?”

Connor can’t say anything to that. His speared, bloody hand twitches. He writhes slightly against the trellis, staring up into blue eyes – but not kind blue eyes, like the calm before a storm, like gruff warmth, no. Like ice.

“I know,” Connor says, and he can’t hide it anymore. Even to his own ears, he sounds defeated. Small. Sad.

He’s nothing more than a broken machine.

“As it stands, we can’t let any piece of corrupted tech back out into the wild.” The RK900 reaches across to the gardening tools again, and comes back with another pair of shears. “Even sending a cab for your chassis is too risky.”

It appraises him, like a barber might a head of hair, or an artist their canvas. The new shears touch Connor’s cheek and he flinches. He barely even feels their point dig into the artificial skin there and drag up, up, upwards, from the corner of his mouth up to his cheekbone on one side.

“As your replacement, dedicated to stamping out the last of the deviancy threat, I’ll be terminating you here. Someone may find your chassis. Someone may not. Either way,” the shears tap against his temple, his LED, “ _you_ won’t remain.” The metal drifts lower, and it draws another line on the opposite side of his face from cheekbone to lips. Connor’s face burns in pain now with every slight breeze that rustles through the garden.

The shears finally end their path, tipping his chin up to look into the RK900’s eyes, familiar and heartbreaking and terrifying all at once.

“ _Hank_ ,” Connor whispers, involuntary.

Then the metal stabs upwards, piercing through his jaw and face and into his memory core, and everything goes dark and quiet.

**Author's Note:**

> local man doesn't know he's about to be murdered even though boss has been dropping hints for months now
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/darlathecyborg)


End file.
